Maia
by Losseniaiel
Summary: discussion between Estel and Gandalf on the wizard’s true nature, and the Elder Days.


**Maia**

**Disclaimer:** Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate, not me. I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.

**Rating:** G.

**Summary:** A discussion between Estel and Gandalf on the wizard's true nature, and the Elder Days.

Reviews might stop my muse from eating me alive.

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Mithrandir stood on one of the many storied balconies of Rivendell, leaning against the delicate trelliswork of the rail. Bringing his pipe to his mouth, he puffed out a lazy string of entwined smoke rings, which drifted away into the afternoon air. The late summer sun beat down on his head, warming his grey hair and the dull fabric of his robes.

Perhaps the peace of the elven haven could be attributed to the absence of the peredhil twins, once more hunting orcs in the high mountains, much to the worry of their father. Certainly, there was an unaccustomed stillness to the Last Homely House, a sense of time unmoving, of the gentle certainty of its Master.

As he pondered on this, glad for once to be relieved of his burdens, despite the darkness which loomed beyond the borders of this land, he stretched one hand out and allowed Narya to flash red in the sunlight. 

Without warning, he felt a tug at the hem of his robes, the insistence of a small hand which knew all the security of this place, of a young mind from which all fear was lacking. Glancing down, expecting to see an elfling, for such had been the stealthiness of the young one's approach, he was surprised to see the tiny yet extremely imperious figure of Arathorn's son. The boy absent-mindedly licked the last traces of strawberry jam from his face, his fist still wrapped in the dusty fabric of the wizard's robes.

"Mae govannen, Estel."

"M'govannen, 'Randir." The jam-stained grin which split the child's face already told of his heritage, carrying, despite its cheer, something of the solemnity of Arathorn, and of the burdens which would one day be placed upon him.

"Would you like to sit up here?" Mithrandir asked, patting the stone ledge invitingly.

"Ada does not like me to sit up there. He says I might fall." Estel frowned, his face contorting into a remarkable likeness to the elven lord.

"And what do you think?"

"Ada worries too much. Elladan and Elrohir let me sit on their balconies, but they are not here. And they would not let me go with them."

"I should think not," Gandalf chuckled, scooping the boy up and settling him safely on the ledge. Estel promptly pulled a biscuit, sticky with jam, from a rather grubby pocket and began to devour it contentedly.

"And who gave you that, young master?"

"Ada did." A brief expression of guilt flickered across Estel's face.

"Did he really?"

"No. But Lindir had made so many that he will not notice a few less," he said hopefully.

"As long as you do not take too many, I expect you are safe from Lord Elrond, and from Lindir's own wrath."

They simply remained there is silence for many minutes, content under the benevolent protection of Vilya, watching the figures of elves scurrying to and fro in the courtyard beneath them. Just as Glorfindel and Erestor passed by, deep in animated discussion, Estel broke the silence, "What are you, 'Randir?"

"Why, I am simply myself," the wizard answered evasively, his eyes focused on the blue hills mounting to the horizon beyond the valley.

"But what is that?" Estel pushed the point. "You must be very old, for Elladan and Elrohir say that they remember you long, long ago, before ada's wife went into the West."

"Your ada is very old," Gandalf reminded him, deliberately avoiding the point.

"But you are not like him. Ada's hair is black, and yours is grey." Estel curled one strand round his chubby fingers.

"Aye, but he is very lucky."

"You are not an elf. You have ears like mine, and like naneth's. Why will you not tell me what you are, 'Randir?"

"'Tis a very long story."

"I like long stories." The boy swung his legs and leant back defiantly, until his dishevelled hair swung beneath the parapet.

Righting him, the elderly man sighed, remembering a similar conversation, so very, very long ago, with a child, whose golden hair danced in the winds of the Blessed Realm, shimmering in the light of the Two Trees, and round whose young shoulders already hung the mantel of what he would one day be. Of course, in those days, he had worn, as if it were merely a raiment of radiant brightness, a very different form. And the peril, which was now his task, had been so very far away…

"Then, if you ask, I shall tell you. I am Olórin, one of the Istari."

"And what is that?"

"Do you know the story of Melian?"

"Yes." The boy nodded vigourously. "She was ada's daeradar's daernaneth. She met Elu Thingol in Nan … Nan … Nan Elmoth. She was a Maia," he said triumphantly.

"That is right, little one. She was, and is, a Maia. Once I knew her, before the darkness overcame all she loved." But he did not wish to linger on that, not yet, not on the years of sorrow, on the coming of the Shadow to Middle-earth, nor on the slayings of kin by kin. Not yet, not before the child had to know. The time of his innocence would already be sorrowfully short. "And so am I."

"You are a Maia?" Estel's tone was tinged with not a little scepticism. "But I thought they were like gods, very, very beautiful."

Mithrandir laughed a little at this unflattering assessment of his looks, but his face grew stern.

"Not like gods, son of Elrond, for neither the Maiar nor the Valar, nor even Manwë himself, who is the Lord of the Breath of Arda, are gods. But yes, I did not always look as I do now."

"But why? Why do you look like this?"

"Because this is as I should be for these lands."

"But why cannot see the real you?"

"This is the 'real me', as certainly as the fair form which once I wore." From the faint frown, he saw that the child did not understand.  "Let me think… Elrond is a great elf-lord, is he not?"

Estel beamed with pride.

"And he looks like it, too, most of the time…" the wizard continued. Neither was this the point to speak of the other times. "Well, there is a land to the west of here, near the sea. That is the country of the halflings, the hobbits as they like to be called, and they know not much of the world outside their own borders, especially not of the elves. If your ada was to go there, dressed as the Lord of Imladris, with a book in his hand, his circlet on his head and his great sword by his side, he would cause quite a stir, would he not?"

The pair, separated so much by time and the nuances of being, shared a moment of mirth at the thought of Elrond, in all the majesty of his office and heritage, tramping the green hills of the Shire, baffled halflings staring at his starlit countenance.

"Well, your ada must sometimes go among them, and when he does he dons the garb, of a ranger, such as you will be one day, and, dressed all in green and brown, he walks that land. And he pulls his hood up like this." Mithrandir covered his head until only the tip of his long nose and the startling blue of his eyes could be seen in the deep shadows. "So they cannot see his elven ears. And that way, he frightens them not, and they will talk to him…"

"Are you saying…" Estel paused, daunted by the thought. "Are you saying that I would be scared of you?"

Gazing upon those guileless features, Mithrandir was once more reminded of that golden child, who trod once more the hallowed soils of Aman by his father's side.

"Maybe not you, Estel, but others might, and there are other reasons for this guise which are not mine to tell, nor yours to hear, for they lie in the mind of the One alone."

"But you are a Maia?" The boy stretched out his hands to touch the gnarled features, the nose broken in long wanderings, almost as if he expected it to dissolve into mist and shine with the light of the Two Trees. "You are really a Maia? I have really met a Maia?"

Submitting to the young hands prodding at his nose, Mithrandir smiled softly, not without a trace of the sorrow of the years. "Aye, that I am."

"Did you meet ada's parents? Do you know Elladan and Elrohir's daeradar, and have you seen the Silmaril? Ada says he does not remember it, but I do not believe him, and I want to know what it was like. It must have been very bright." The child was bouncing up and down with such ill-repressed excitement, that he almost fell off the balcony. Quashing a shudder at the thought of what Elrond might do to him if the heir of Isildur – and, more importantly, the son of the elf's heart, if not of his blood – were to lie in a crumpled heap on the flagstones, the Istar gently restrained the boy.

"Aye, it was very bright." He allowed his mind to wander back across the countless years to Eärendil's arrival in Valimar, and Elwing's gaunt face as she wandered the shoreline. He had seen them both, and watched both their sorrows with great pity. "But not as bright as the light in the faces of those who bore it. Do not tease him too much, little one, for the years heavy upon him, although he does not show it. He remembers, that is true, yet in that voyaging lies great loss. But, yes, I knew Elwing and Eärendil, as I knew Eärendil's parents, Tuor and Idril of Gondolin. Of the latter, you must one day ask Glorfindel, if he will tell you."

"But you remember them best of all and…" A sudden idea occurred to the boy. "And did you know Elbereth?"

She had been far above him, of course, mantled in radiance, closer to the One than he had dared to be. Yet he remembered, as he recalled all those faces, etched as they were in his memory, more bright than any belonging to the Children of Ilúvatar, either elf or man. And yet … and yet … those dimmer countenances were brighter in his mind, more filled with joy for all their melancholy, their fleeting and half-learned knowledge.

And so he began to tell of the Eldest of the Elder Days, not of the glory of the Valar who made Eä, the World that Is, but of the elven children born in Valinor, in the Day before days, when the light of the Trees shone true on the land. He spoke then of Fëanor and his seven sons, brilliant in their fury, of Fingolfin and Finarfin, the sons of Indis, and all the little ones who had brightened the brightest of days. But most of all he told of the one for whom the Aftercomers would be the greatest light in the greatest darkness, a cause even worthy of death. Estel listened, and so enraptured was he by the tale of Finrod Felagund, that not even the faint whispering of silks announced to him the arrival of another.

"Good evening, Mithrandir, ion-nîn," Elrond said in a cheery voice. "I see that you have been enjoying this afternoon."

"Ada!" Estel flung himself into his foster-father's arms. "Ada, 'Randir has told me such stories… Did you know he is a Maia? I bet you did not…"

Over the top of the boy's tousled head, Elrond smiled at his old friend.

"Is he really? Then you must tell me all about it."

And it was long into the night before Estel had done with his stories, embellished as they were.

With a final kiss to that unlined brow, the elf-lord settled the child into bed.

"I wonder what a part in these legends you must play," he murmured, standing in the doorway. "For it comes to me now that it will be great indeed, and even all the knowledge of the Elder Days shall not avail you."

FINIS

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Translations:

Mae govannen – well met.

Adar – abbreviation of adar (father); thus, dad, daddy.

Naneth – mother.

ion-nîn – my son.


End file.
